


En Pointe

by dreadpiratewatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Bullying, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Insecure Sherlock, John Loves Sherlock, John is a Saint, Johnlock Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Overprotective John, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Loves John, balletlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadpiratewatson/pseuds/dreadpiratewatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thought of John Watson, his John Watson finding out about his love of ballet was terrifying. John was a soldier. Robust, muscular, almost rippling with strength, and he could only imagine what said soldier would do if he found out. Of course, in the back of his mind, he had a dream once of his rugby-playing soldier doctor meeting him after show, teasing him lovingly about the leotard and tights, wiping away the sweaty stage make up that fell down his face as he leaned in for a kiss... But it was wrong. John wasn't gay, Sherlock wasn't a ballet dancer, and love was a horrible thing to think about after a murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	En Pointe

The body had turned up outside of a nightclub. A young woman was staggering home after a long night of dancing when she found it shoved between the wall and the dumpster and immediately called police. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade wasted no time in calling the one man he knew could solve it.  
  
"The body's been beaten pretty badly, and he was bludgeoned twice on the head with a blunt object." Lestrade was saying as he watched the tall, lithe man in the dark navy coat flit around the body. He was undoubtedly ignoring everything that he was saying, but Sherlock Holmes could tell more about a body in five minutes than he could in a day.  
  
John Watson stood by, observing Sherlock as he worked. He couldn't believe the state of the body. "Poor sod." He muttered, gazing down at the man on the ground. "Sherlock, what've you got?"  
  
Sherlock clicked the magnifying glass shut and shoved it in his pocket. "Young, early twenties, ballet dancer. Jumped by a single man, probably an athlete, very strong, however, the head wounds were done by a wooden object, but by someone else, more than likely a woman." He answered in a single breath, his eyes still scanning the body wildly.  
  
"How can you tell?" Lestrade questioned, impressed as he always was.  
  
The dark haired detective gave him a look that both men recognized as _it's obvious,_ although it was only obvious to him. "This man was kicked and beaten by someone very large and very strong, size thirteen feet by the state of the bruise on his diaphragm, and there's the slight scent of cheap men's deodorant on his cloths, but this man wears nice cologne and would never touch such foul smelling products, therefore, another man. Now, there are small wood splinters in his hair, therefore he was struck by a blunt wooden object, but the man who beat him was obviously some sort of athlete, perhaps a rugby player, so he would have had strong arms. Judging by the state of the body, this man was in a rage, or he was enjoying it way too much, so he would have done more damage than what the head wound shows which implies there was someone else hitting him on the head. More than likely a woman." He explained, sounding disappointed like always.  
  
His deductions left John and Lestrade speechless. The man was so brilliant sometimes, it was scary.  
  
The doctor cleared his throat and approached the body to take a look for himself. He crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet as he searched for anything Sherlock might have missed, although he knew he didn't. "Sherlock, you said dancer." He commented, peering up at his flatmate. "How can you tell?"  
  
"He's lean, but strong. Quite flexible, judging by the position of the body. Obviously fit, but not fit enough to be an athlete, so dancer it is. Look at his ankles." Sherlock shot back excitedly. "Also, I found his keys in his pocket. Look at this." He pulled the pair of keys out of the dead man's pocket and attached to the key ring was a small, laminated ID tag with _London Heights Ballet Academy_  printed on it. It was worn, obviously from having been there a long time. On the back, the name _Oliver Richards_ was printed in bold letters.  
  
John shook his head in disbelief. "Poor sod." He repeated. "So, what now? We go investigate the dance studio?"  
  
Sherlock's face lit up. "Indeed." He got to his feet and turned to Lestrade. "Will you be accompanying us there?"  
  
"Of course, I have to." Greg replied as if it were a dumb question.  
  
"Then you need to be quiet." The detective ordered before walking away briskly toward the street to haul a cab. "Coming John?"  
  
Greg watched, completely dumbfounded as the detective walked away. He turned to John, who was just shaking his head after his flatmate. "Did... Did he just tell me to shut up?" He demanded.  
  
John shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time Sherlock decided to be a..." He was cut off by the sound of his flatmate calling for him from around the corner. The doctor sighed. "We'll meet you there, Greg."  
  
**______________**

  
The dance studio was stuck in the mess of London. It was a larger building, and possibly one of the most well known dance companies in all of England. The familiar smells of chalk and sweat lingered in the air as the three men walked carefully through the echoing lobby. Sherlock had not seen the inside of the dance studio since he was young. The sweet nostalgia was hitting him hard, but in a way, he loved it. The rooms were fairly large, and he could hear the soft clapping of pointe shoes as they fell across the floor. The music was beautiful, classical, something the detective recognized, but couldn't remember the name of.  
  
"Sherlock?" John asked quietly from behind him. "What are we supposed to be doing?"  
  
The detective hesitated before answering, listening for something in particular. As he heard it coming from down the hallway, he smiled to himself. "Just follow me." He took the lead down the hall to another studio room. The door was open slightly, and he could hear the soft sounds of a darker, more contemporary sounding piece of classical music coming out of the door, and he could hear the pattering of a single pair of feet as the tumbled across the floor.  
  
He pushed the door open to see a beautiful young woman gliding across the floor, her haired back into a loose, messy bun, and her eyes focusing on a corner as she made a triumphant leap across the floor and twisted around, settling on the ground in a graceful kneel. She held her position until the music ended, and then got to her feet, breathing heavily.  
  
Sherlock, who was incredibly fond of ballet, smiled at her. "That was quite beautiful." He praised, his deep baritone voice echoing through the now silent room.  
  
The brunette turned to him with a smile and pulled her wavy red locks out of the bun it was in. "Thanks, darling." She replied happily.  
  
The detective stepped forward, holding out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."  
  
She smiled politely, although she glanced cautiously over her shoulder at the other two men. "Lilah Highmore. What can I do for you, gentlemen?" She asked.  
  
"We're with Scotland Yard. I'm a detective." Sherlock explained before turning. "This is my partner, Dr. John Watson, and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. We need to ask you a few questions, if that's alright."  
  
Lilah raised an eyebrow. "Sure." She answered, although it sounded more like a question than an response.  
  
Sherlock glanced back at John before continuing. "Do you know anybody by the name of Oliver Richards?" He asked slowly.  
  
The redhead's face lightened a bit. "Oli? Yeah, he's my partner." She took in their expressions, and suddenly her face fell. "Oh, god, what's he done? What's happened?" Panic was seeping into her words, and the detective didn't miss the way her eyes flashed between the wildly, as if they were her executioners.  
  
"He was murdered last night." Sherlock told her bluntly. There was no time to waste being sentimental.  
  
Lilah Highmore's eyes filled with tears as she turned away from them, her hand flying to her mouth. "Jesus Christ." She rasped.  
  
Sherlock felt John kick him roughly in the leg as if to say _way to be nice about it._ He didn't exactly feel too bad, he always though that it was easier to be blunt about death as opposed to gentle. Sentiment got in the way of the important things. It was easier to move on.  
  
The redhead turned back to them, her crisp blue eyes flashing with rage through the overlay of tears that were flooding down her cheeks. "It was his father, wasn't it?" She snarled.  
  
That got a response from all three men. Lestrade spoke first while Sherlock took into consideration what she said.  
  
"His father?" He demanded. "Why would Oliver's father do this?"  
  
Lilah wiped at the tears in her eyes angrily before looking down at the sleek floor. "Um..." Her voice cracked with tears again and Greg reached out lay a hand on her arm out of comfort. When she looked up, she suddenly looked as though she was going to faint. "Well... Oli was gay, and his father... Didn't exactly like it." She answered. "He was known to be violent, but I never thought he'd..." She let out a soft sob, and Greg, who was already holding onto her, snaked his arm around her back for comfort.  
  
Sherlock cleared his throat. "John?" He motioned for the doctor to follow him away from Lestrade and Lilah for a moment.  
  
John Watson followed without hesitation, and the two went to the back of the room. "Jesus, Sherlock, do you think the father did it?" The doctor asked.  
  
"It's possible. I need you to find where he lives and question the father." The detective answered curtly.  
  
"Wait, what are you going to do?"  
  
Sherlock grinned. "I'm going to dance class."  
  
John did a mental double take before he realized what he was getting at. "You think... You think Lilah did it?"  
  
"God, no, look at her, John, everything about her is about ballet, she and Oliver were good friends, she reacted the right way, she's no murderer." He scoffed. "Do keep up, John, we have work to do. Go talk to the father, text me if you find out anything interesting."  
  
**_______________**  
  
Sherlock Holmes watched carefully as Lilah Highmore explained to the entire dance company that Oliver Richards had been killed in a car accident. They all cried, they all grieved and mourned, and eventually, after there was a lot of hugging and many words of sentiment, she called off company rehearsal for the weekend, then slunk into her office while everyone went home with heavy hearts.  
  
After everyone had left and Lilah had finally come out of her office to clean, Sherlock-who had been snooping around long enough to know for a fact that he could take her off of the list of suspects-approached her. "Why did you lie to them?" He asked her, perhaps a bit too briskly.  
  
The redhead didn't look up from her sweeping, but shrugged. "It was easier to say."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Well... I know you don't have a suspect yet, so perhaps it's better to lie. I don't want them to be scared."  
  
"And if the murderer comes back?"  
  
Lilah Highmore paused her cleaning and tilted her head up slowly. Her eyes were burning with tears and rage and she didn't let up her murderous gaze for a moment. Her jaw was locked tightly as she held back the words she wanted to scream, and she had to take a few breaths to compose herself. But once she found her voice again, it sent shivers right through the young detective's bones. "I'll rip his fucking spine out." She responded darkly with over articulated diction. The dancer then set the broom to the side and brushed past him, leaving a cold, harsh breeze in her wake. "Now... You're welcome to look around, investigate, whatever, just... I have work to do." And without another word, she disappeared into one of the studios.  
  
The detective stood there dumbfounded for a moment, and decided he was actually happy that Lilah had lied to her dancers about Oliver's death. If the killer thought that the police weren't onto them, they would have no reason to run. They'd assume they could get away with it, and they wouldn't leave.  
  
A sudden buzz came from the phone in the man's pocket, and he pulled it out eagerly, knowing it was John.  
  
_Father is clean. Alibi checks out. He was home all night with his fiancée and he's really distraught about Oliver's death. He seems regretful about the homophobia thing._  
  
But of course, Sherlock had already guessed that. _I'll have a list of possible suspects within the hour. -SH_ He texted back.  
  
There was a short pause in between messages, probably John getting a cab. _Anything in particular you want me to do?_  
  
Sherlock thought for a moment, then shook his head, although John couldn't see. He sent a quick ' no, thank you' as a reply, regained his thoughts and decided to look around some more. This time, however, it wasn't for the case.  
  
The more he walked around the dance studio, he found himself staring at the gorgeous paintings that were hanging on the walls, and reminiscing on the times he was once infatuated with the idea of ballet. He was told by a boy he met at uni that he had the best figure for a male dancer, and although it was meant as a light joke, Sherlock's heart had nearly caved in when he said it. He had always loved ballet, he thought it was beautiful, but it was one of those things he could never do. He used to dream of it, being a dancer, but those dreams were long gone now.  
  
From down the hall, he could hear beautiful music coming from Lilah's studio room. Just out of purse nostalgia, Sherlock went to go see what the pretty redhead was dancing to this time. The door was still cracked just ever so slightly, and he stood just outside, able to see her through the tiny sliver.  
  
She was working on a routine to an upbeat classical song that was both happy and mysterious. The dance was very acrobatic and graceful, and he nearly melted at the stunning way she moved. He watched her as she glided across the floor, keeping and spinning, her hands beautiful and graceful, her head held high... She was stunning in the air. At one point, she stopped and paused the music, then slowly ran through a new eight count. She was adding to the dance. Her face was hard and concentrated as she tried to think.  
  
Sherlock, having spent a few years doing this himself in the comfort of his own room, smiled. "You know, if you turn that last double into a coupé, you could turn out of it into a soubresaut." He suggested.  
  
Lilah looked up from her work with one eyebrow raised. "You think?"  
  
His heart warmed when she spoke. She didn't question his knowledge of ballet moves, she just went with it. He tried not to let it show how happy it made him, but he knew she could tell. "Of course. Also, your leap was rather beautiful, if I must say."  
  
The redhead laughed. "Oh, thank you. I try. I've been doing this since I was two, I would hope I at least have some talent for it." She replied, getting to her feet. "You should have seen Oli's, he was always so..." She cut off suddenly and her gaze dropped to the floor. It stayed that way for only a fraction of a second before she looked back up, smiling. "So, you dance?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head. "I have, but not in many years. I still adore it though, it's... Beautiful." He confessed, feeling the heat rush to his face. He hadn't talked about his love for ballet in years. Not since school.  
  
"Very impressive." She replied. "Does he know?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"That doctor you came in with. Your partner."  
  
The heat flooded to Sherlock's face as he realized she had taken his introducing John as his partner in a literal sense. Not like it hadn't happened before, everyone assumed that he and John were a couple, but that wasn't what had him pink in the face. The thought of John Watson, _his_ John Watson finding out about his love of ballet was terrifying. John was a soldier. Robust, muscular, almost rippling with strength, and he could only imagine what said soldier would do if he found out. Of course, in the back of his mind, he had a dream once of his rugby-playing soldier doctor meeting him after show, teasing him lovingly about the leotard and tights, wiping away the sweaty stage make up that fell down his face as he leaned in for a kiss... But it was wrong. John wasn't gay, Sherlock wasn't a ballet dancer, and love was a horrible thing to think about after a murder.  
  
Sherlock opened and closed his mouth many times before attempting to speak. For a moment, he deleted the entire English language. "N-no, we're not... he's not... John is... I never... he's... Straight." He finally managed to stutter. He kicked himself mentally for reacting like such a child. He never had never once denied the idea of the two of them being a couple, but the idea of soldier John and ballerina Sherlock... He couldn't even bring himself to think of it.  
  
Lilah's eyes went wide as she recognized her mistake. She seemed surprised as the detective stumbled and tripped over his own tongue. She hadn't expected it. "Oh!" Her voice came out as an embarrassed squeak. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize. Just the way that you two... Well." She paused and reached up to rub the back of her neck apprehensively. "Sorry if I made you uncomfortable." The redhead apologized, her voice dropping.  
  
"No, it's... Fine." He replied, his face still slightly pink. "A lot of people assume that."  
  
The redhead dismissed the conversation-which Sherlock was thankful for-and made her way back to the desk where her CD player was. She prepared the music, keeping her back to the detective. She didn't say anything after that, just getting back to work.  
  
The silence got too much for Sherlock-again, something new for him-and he decided to switch subjects. "So... What were you working on?" He asked casually.  
  
"Duet. Well... Not a duet anymore."  
  
"Why not go home? You've had a long day, after all." It sounded a hell of a lot more intrusive than he actually wanted it to.  
  
She turned around and held her back against the counter top, her eyes on the ground. "Oli wasn't just my dance partner, he was my best friend. We've known each other since we were children. We lived in a flat together down the street, and it's just... easier if I don't go home right now." She answered, tilted her head to the skylight above her, her pretty blue eyes filled to the brim of tears, and Sherlock understood. "I'm also not going home because I need to finish this for him. Every year, he had a solo, I had a solo, and we had a duet together. But, that can't happen anymore for obvious reasons, so I'm cutting my solo and turning out duet into a solo... But it's not working really." She was suddenly looking at him with sorrowful, hopeful eyes. "You're an ex dancer, would you mind, perhaps, helping me?"  
  
Sherlock Holmes felt hit heart skip multiple beats in a row, his knees going weak. "What?" It came out as an almost inhuman squeak.  
  
Lilah shrugged. "Well, you obviously have the knowledge, I just thought that you'd..."  
  
"You want... _My_ help?" He repeated, attempting to fathom the idea of dancing again after so many years.  
  
"If you want to. If you have to leave, I understand, but I could actually use your help." She told him.  
  
Sherlock thought for what seemed like hours, but was actually only a few seconds. Part of him was panicking, as he hadn't danced since he was fourteen and he never, never expected to do it again, but the other side of him was so excited. He wanted so badly to say yes, but could he? _You're fine, Sherlock, it's just dancing, you can do it._ One side of him said. _But what if John finds out?_ The other side panicked. _John won't know, it's just one time. It's fine, Sherlock._ Could he really do it? Would it really not hurt? He loved it, sure, he always had, but could he really risk John finding out? Surely the doctor would ask why he didn't come home right away after he was done investigating the dance studio. Of course, lying would be easy, Sherlock had always been a better actor than John, and of course, John wouldn't question it... But what if he actually figured it out? It wouldn't be hard to decipher, but... John wasn't that observant... Was he? No, impossible. He wouldn't. _Take a deep breath, Sherlock Holmes._ The voice in the back of his head ordered.  
  
The detective slid the overcoat off his shoulders and folded it over the wooden bar before turning to Lilah. "Where do we start?"

 **______________**  
  
John didn't question Sherlock coming home so late. He said hello and went back to his game on his laptop while Sherlock, who was tired and aching from his long rehearsal with Lilah Highmore, made himself a cup of tea and settled into his chair with a heavy sigh. He considered reaching for his violin and playing, but he in that moment, he was content with just sitting and watching whatever horrible movie John was watching. He was sore, but happy. Very happy.  
  
They found the murderer two days later. The murderer was Nikki Schneider, one of the dancers. She was jealous of Oli and Lilah always getting the top solos and decided it was best to kill them. She got her boyfriend, a rugby player as Sherlock had deduced early on, to stalk him outside a night club and beat him to death while Nikki hit him over the head with a pipe that they found in her boyfriend's garbage can. Nikki had come into the studio late one night while Lilah was rehearsing (Sherlock just sat there to watch her, since he had a theory that the murderer would come back), and made the mistake of trying to attack Lilah while Sherlock was out of the room. Sherlock got her to the ground in seconds, and shortly after, the police cam by to pick her up. It was a very eventful night.  
  
A week after the case had been solved, Sherlock went to go visit Lilah at the studio. She was just finishing up with the company routine when he slunk into the room and watched in admiration as they danced. After everyone left, he came out of the corner with a happy grin on his face. "Quite exquisite, Miss. Highmore, you're quite the teacher." He commented.  
  
Lilah only laughed. "What brings you here, Nijinsky?" She asked. The nickname came from Vaslav Nijinsky, one of the most famous, and possibly greatest male ballet dancers in history. The nickname made him happier than he would have ever wanted to admit to anyone.  
  
He made a movement that closely resembled a shrug. "Oh, just checking up." He answered. "I wanted to see how your solo was coming."  
  
"Oh, it's good!" She then paused and leaned up against the mirror, looking slightly embarrassed. "Actually, that's something I wanted to talk to you about."  
  
The detective raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"  
  
Lilah bit at her lip, as if she were having trouble with the words. "Look, up... I've been thinking a lot about this, and... I don't want that dance to be a solo. It was Oli's last duet and I think it deserves to stay like that. But... I no longer have a partner, as you know, so I was wondering if you would be interested in..." She glanced up as he sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly looking concerned. "You alright, mate?"  
  
He couldn't find his words. He only nodded briskly, his whole body shaking.  
  
She looked doubtful, but continued anyway. "Sherlock, I'll just come out and say it, you're a bloody good dancer for someone who hasn't danced in years. You're fantastic, and I... I would be honored if you were my partner for this dance."  
  
Sherlock Holmes was silent. On the inside, he was screaming. He wanted this. God, how he wanted this. This was everything he wanted to do, it had been since the first moment he walked through the doors of _London Heights Ballet Academy_. God, did he ever want this. His heart pounded like a caged animal against his chest, and it was so loud he could hear the blood pumping in his ears. "Yes." He stuttered out before he even had a chance to think about it or change his mind. "I'd love to."  
  
Lilah grinned bright enough to light the room and hopped off of the counter she was sitting on. "Good. Let's get started."  
  
**_______________**  
  
"John?" Sherlock called as he trampled up the stairs of 221B Baker St.  
  
The doctor was sitting on the couch reading a book when the detective came barreling through the door. He looked up, alarmed. "Sherlock? Bloody hell, you scared me, what's-"  
  
He was cut off by the taller man grabbing his arm and pulling him up. "Come on, we're going to Lilah's show tonight!" He shouted excitedly.  
  
John was utterly baffled by his flatmate's excitement. "Her show?" He asked, sounding idiotic.  
  
Sherlock nodded. "Yes, now come along, we're going to miss it!"  
  
"Sherlock, wait a minute." John ordered, yanking his arm out of the detective's grip and folding them across his chest in a defiant manner. "Why?"  
  
The man hesitated. John knew nothing about this whole endeavor. Sherlock hadn't told him a thing about taking Oliver's place in the duet with Lilah. He had been too terrified of the reaction to tell him, and having John come was terrifying enough, but in the back of his mind, he really wanted his best friend to be there to see him dance. It was stupid, all of this, but he wanted nothing more than for John to see him. They had worked so hard on it, and tonight was the big night... But suddenly, he felt nervous all over again. His palms were sweaty, his mouth was dry... _All the signs of stage fright..._ But Sherlock Holmes did _not_ get stage fright. He quickly came up with a lie and whirled around to face his friend. "It's her first show without Oliver Richards, and I kind of promised her we'd go to support her for her duet." He said apologetically, gazing down at the man, hoping he didn't see through the lie.  
  
John's gaze softened almost immediately, his jaw dropping slightly. He didn't seem to get the sudden sentiment from his normally robotic flatmate, but he wasn't going to question it. He reached for his coat with a grin. "Alright, let's go then."  
  
Sherlock nearly kissed him right then and there, but decided against it.  
  
The two went downstairs and hauled a cab, and the entire ride, the detective was trying his hardest to not heave up the butterflies that were fluttering in his belly.  
  
When they got to the concert hall where the performance was being held, he bought two tickets to keep John from getting suspicious, and they took their seats on the end of the first row. John sat down just as the lighting changed for the company routine, but Sherlock remained standing. "I'll be back." He whispered nervously.  
  
The doctor looked up at him in confusion. "Wait, where the hell are you going?"  
  
"Just... Stay here, I'll be back." He ordered before quickly slinking away from his friend. He ran around to the back and pushed open the dressing room door, smiling nervously as the dancers greeted him. They told him his costume, a tight outfit in all black, was in the back and that Lilah was waiting for him. One of the dancers asked him to lace up the back of her corset, and he did with shaking hands. As he made his way to the back, he saw his costume and Lilah's ice blue duet dress handing on the locker, and he nearly threw up.  
  
**______________**  
  
Sherlock sat on the bench in the dressing room, head between his knees as he tried to focus on his breathing. His heart was racing, his stomach was flipping and churning, he was nearly sweating through the make up on his face... He felt like he was going to die. He had already, in the time it took to put on all of the stage make up and the ungodly tight costume, received two texts from John, who was asking him where he was, but he couldn't find the energy to reply.  
  
He heard the door open and the patter of Lilah Highmore's feet as they came across the floor. "Sherlock, you ready, love?" She asked, her voice sounding old and grainy, like an worn out vinyl record. He didn't look up. "Hey?" She called to him. "Sherlock, you okay?" She dropped to her knees in front of him. "Hey, hey, hey, Sherlock, what's wrong?"  
  
He raised his head slowly, not wanting to invoke the dizziness again. He was breathing hard. "I..." He whimpered, his voice coming out like a terrified child's.  
  
Lilah, with her eyes all worried and her beautiful red hair all curled and falling in ringlets around her face and on her shoulders was gorgeous. Her make up for the duet was stunning, and the icy blue bodice was even more beautiful along her strong, slender figure. She was staring at him out of pure concern, and she quickly caught on to the problem.. "Sherlock... It's alright, lovely. You're going to be fine." She whispered as she lifted her hand and rubbed calming circles on his back. "Stage fright is normal."  
  
"I don't get stage fright!" He protested, his bottom lip turning down into a pout.  
  
She didn't say anything about the sudden anger. "Sherlock, my love, there is nothing wrong with being nervous. I've been doing this for over twenty years and I'm nervous."  
  
"Yes, but _I_ don't get stage fright!" He snapped. He began breathing heavily again, and the tingling sensation in his fingers came back, and for a moment, he felt like he was going to faint. He tried to stand up, but stumbled terribly and fell back down again into her waiting, stable arms. "I can't do this."  
  
"Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare leave me yet." The redhead ordered sternly, but kindly. He met her eyes, saw the emotion, and without a word, sat back down. Lilah watched him carefully for a moment, assessing his movements carefully. She didn't want to say the wrong thing, but she needed an answer. "If it's not stage fright... then what are you afraid of?"  
  
The detective swallowed hard, biting the inside of his mouth. He suddenly couldn't speak again, and when he tried, it came out a painful, broken whisper that made him sound like a terrified child. "John's out there."

His words took immediate effect in the way she looked at him. Her confused gaze softened immensely, her lips turned down into a soft, understanding smile, and all of a sudden, she seemed more motherly than his own mother had at any point in his childhood. His heart warmed as he realized what was happening and why she was watching him like that; Lilah _understood._ She understood his terrible fear of John reacting like people always had in the past, and he found himself wondering if this was how it was for normal people in love. Lilah understood that his love for John was beyond anything he had ever experienced, and it was scaring him to death. She understood everything.

Lilah reached out and took his hand between her own, squeezing it in the most loving, protective way. "Sherlock Holmes... When I first met you, I made the wrong assumption about you and John Watson, and I'm very sorry about that. When you said that you two weren't a couple, I was honestly in shock. But... Now I understand it, and I have just one thing to say." She gave him her happiest smile. "I would give anything, anything to have a man look at me the way that that doctor of yours looks at you when you've got your back turned. I don't know what happened to you that made you terrified to show him what you can do onstage, but I can guess, because Oli went through it too, and let me tell you, whatever they've done to you, whatever they've made you think, you are ten times more brilliant than they are in more than one aspect, and I would never in my life have you believe otherwise, and if John Watson is really your friend, neither would he." She paused briefly, allowing the detective to think about what she said.

 _But what if he reacts badly like the others did?_ He thought desperately. _He's the only friend I've got. I don't him to walk out on me too._ He wanted to kick himself for letting the old childhood fears come over him again, but he couldn't stop them. He hated it, being afraid, he had only been afraid a few times in his life, and almost all of those times were because of John, and nothing terrified him more than the idea of John walking out of 221B for the last time because of him.

"But what if..."

She quickly put a hand over his mouth, preventing him from talking. "No 'what if's." She told him. "If John cared about anything so trivial, he would have left you in the dust ages ago."

Sherlock gazed up at her, taking in her smile and the way her eyes were warm enough to melt glaciers... And finally, he found himself smiling too. He wasn't done being afraid, he was still terrified, but now, he had the confidence to walk out into the stage lights with her. The detective got to his feet, taking his pretty, redheaded dance partner with him, and took a deep breath. As he exhaled, he shut everything else out of his head, the doors to his mind palace closed and locked for the time being, and he nodded. "I'm ready."

With a swift kiss to his cheek and a tug at his arm, the two made their way out of the dressing room and down to the stage area. He could hear the music from the routine before them playing, nearing the end, and he took several deep, much needed breaths. This was important. From his place behind the curtain, he could just barely see John in front, watching the dance, occasionally looking down at the phone in his hand, and Sherlock swallowed hard. Lilah squeezed his hand as the lights dimmed, and the pair before them left the stage. As the stage blackened, Sherlock and Lilah stepped out, unable to see a thing. This was it.

The music began, the lights came up, and suddenly, he and Lilah were gliding across the stage side by side and the dark part of the music played. He kept his eyes on her, not quite able to gaze at John yet. He focused on the steps as he remembered everything from the last few weeks of secret rehearsing, flowing with the music the way she did. Her icy blue bodice twisted and spun around her as he lifted her once, twice, three times high above his head, his own strength amazing him. Ever turn, every leap, every bend, every single move he remembers, and they flitted around in complete synchronization. The stage lights were hot and the air was heavy, the music was loud and just as stunning as they planned. He never once dropped his attention from her. This was the moment he had been waiting for, and he loved it. He got completely lost in it. As the final moments of their duet came, he put all of his strength into the throw as he spun the beautiful young woman into the air, catching her as she spun downwards into his arms. They had done it.

They kept their eyes on each other as the music came to an end, and they were both breathing heavily enough that would cause any normal person to faint. "You did it!" Lilah whispered to him over the sound of the crowd cheering. He felt the happy tears prick at his eyes as the lights went out onstage, and they exited. The pair hugged and gushed for quite a few minutes as their fellow dancers cried over the beauty of the duet, and how wonderful he had been onstage. That comment struck the detective's heart. He wanted to hear it again. But instead, he went back to the dressing room with Lilah, changed back into his normal attire and made his way to the exit.

Just as he was leaving, Lilah grabbed his arm and pulled him for one more hug. He accepted the embrace. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are an absolute marvel." She gushed. "That was fucking incredible."

"You weren't so bad yourself, Miss. Highmore." He replied as she nuzzled her nose into his shoulder.

When she pulled away, her smile became bigger. "You know, if you ever want to come back, I'll keep a spot open for you." She said. "You'd be a joy to have around the studio."

Sherlock was tempted to say yes, but only laughed. "I'll have to think about it. But... Lilah, thank you for letting me do this. It was an honor."

She giggled. "Oli would have been proud to see you dance that way. He'd be very proud."

He felt the heat rise to his face, and he quickly kissed the girl's cheek, just to say thank you, before uttering a soft goodbye, and turning away.

"Hey!" She called after him. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade... He's not _married_ is he?"

Sherlock snorted. _Of course she would be interested in Lestrade._ "Not anymore, no."

Lilah nodded, a playful smirk pulling at her lips. "Give him my number. Tell him to give me a call if he wants to have coffee."

"Will do." He snickered.

And with that, Sherlock Holmes pushed the double doors of the dressing room open, making his way out to the crowded lobby. He searched over them for a moment, and no one recognized him. But... no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't find John.  
**_______________**

The walk back to Baker St. was horrible. The detective was beating himself up horrendously about what he had done. He knew John would leave, he had known it from the beginning. He hadn't even bothered to check his phone, out of pure fear that there would be a text message from his flatmate. All of his fears were being recognized as he walked into the freezing wind. The sweat from the intensity of the routine was making the cold air worse, despite the warm coat. He was cold. He was hurt. He was angry at himself. When he got back home, he was going to tell John to forget this night had ever happened, never mention it again, and just hope to god that John still wanted to be his friend.  
  
With trembling hands, he reached out and pushed the door open, taking the stairs one at a time, very slowly, not wanting to face his flatmate. The door to their flat was unlocked, so John was already home. The knowledge made his heart cower.  
  
John was waiting for him when he stepped inside, sitting in his chair across the room. He looked up at the detective with the emotionless soldier stare he had adapted so well, but there was a gleam of surprise in his eyes. "Hey." He said casually.  
  
Sherlock said nothing.  
  
The doctor didn't let up his gaze. "Where were you? I waited nearly an hour for you." His tone wasn't harsh, just strictly curious.  
  
Sherlock, again, said nothing.  
  
John sighed. "Sherlock, say something so that I know you haven't gone deaf."  
  
The detective slumped back against the door, feeling weak. "I'm sorry, John." He managed.  
  
John raised an eyebrow. "What for?"  
  
Silence.  
  
John pushed himself up from his seat and leaned against the chair to keep himself level with the man. "So, why didn't you tell me that you danced?" He asked, his friend who was still standing against the door like it was the only thing keeping him upright.  
  
Sherlock's mouth felt dry. "I was afraid of how you would react." He answered. No point in lying. John would see right though him at this point.  
  
"You thought I'd react badly to you being a ballet dancer."  
  
"I'm not a... It was a one time thing." He protested.  
  
John gave him a strange look. "Oh come on, there's no way you've never done that before." He commented. "Did you dance as a kid?"  
  
Sherlock tried to swallow the lump that was rising in his throat. It was ridiculous to cry over this, but he was scared.  
  
His silence said everything however. John looked down at the floor with a nod. "Sherlock, you could have told me. I wouldn't have..."  
  
"No, I couldn't have."  
  
John's mouth dropped open. "Sherlock, you're my best friend, of course you could have."  
  
"That's what they said last time." The detective said bitterly.  
  
Sherlock watched as his friend's expression changed from confusion to understanding to sudden anger, and the detective flinched internally. "Sherlock... There's something you're not telling me about this, so spill." He commanded gently.  
  
_If it means you stay._ He replied silently. The detective shifted his body weight uncomfortably against the floorboards. He couldn't believe he was about to say this. He leaned up against the door for support and took a deep breath, forcing himself not to become unraveled. "When I was young, I went to the theatre with my mother. There was a ballet troupe from Russia performing Swan Lake and I found out very quickly that I had a deep love for ballet. The music, the movements, it was all beautiful and new to me and I loved it.  
  
"I never told my parents that I wanted to be a dancer because I knew they'd react badly to it and never allow me to take lessons, so I started to teach myself how in my room. I studied every term, every movement until I was completing dances myself in the sanctuary of my bed room. No one knew." Sherlock swallowed hard as the tears rose up again. "That is, until the incident at school."  
  
John, who was watching him very seriously furrowed his eyebrows. "What happened at school?" He asked flatly.  
  
Sherlock looked up with a sad smile. "Boys at school, they... They found my shoes." He answered. John understood immediately. "They caught me in the hallway, ripped the straps off of them, beat me up pretty badly, all while calling me things I don't even dare repeat now." He paused as the painful memories resurfaced. "The school called Mycroft, who ended up having to take me to A&E. While we were there, I told him the truth about why they beat me up. He kept it to himself, but told me it would be unwise to continue. So... I threw my shoes away and never danced again. 

"Not that I ever stopped loving it, though. I always loved it." He paused and allowed himself to laugh, ignoring the bitter pain in his chest as he did so. "When Lilah asked me if I wanted to take Oliver's place as her partner... I couldn't help but say yes, but the second I got up there and realized what I was doing, I wanted to run away and disappear. Anything to keep me from having you see."

John blinked twice, which was probably the only reaction he could muster at that point. "Did you think I was going to laugh at you?" 

"No." Sherlock replied, almost surprised at John for not understanding. "I've never _had_ friends, John, not before you. I had one person who I almost considered _considering_ a friend, but that was all over once this came out. He learned the truth about me and left. He helped them beat the hell out of me in the hallway that day. You're the only friend I've got now."

John staggered back under the weight of the man's words and caught himself on the chair with both hands in an attempt to steady himself. He had his head down, and his fingernails were digging into the fabric like claws. "Christ, Sherlock." He gasped. His head snapped up, his cold soldier's eyes locking with the man at the door's, clouded by disbelief. "You honestly think I would do that to you?" He demanded, obviously hurt. "Bloody hell." He turned away from his friend, angling himself so that he could look out at the snow falling down outside.

Sherlock suddenly felt guilty. He hadn't meant to hurt John over his stupid fears, and he was suddenly walking forward, desperate for the man to look at him again. He didn't want him to turn away. "John, I... I just didn't want you to think any different of me." He confessed.

"You think I would think differently of you because you _like ballet?"_ The doctor demanded, his voice raising well above what it was at before.

The detective swallowed hard. This was dangerous. He silently wished he hadn't said anything to begin with. "It's not just the ballet..." 

_"I don't care, Sherlock!"_ John thundered at him in a disbelieving tone as he turned to face him again. "I don't care, alright? I don't care if you like ballet, I don't care if you like fucking women or you like fucking men, I don't care about any of that, alright?" He let out a breath as he leaned up against the chair, his head down again. "I would think you knew me better than that."

The disappointment in John's voice was what broke the detective. He sucked in a sharp breath, half out of relief to know that his sexuality didn't make a difference to John, but also out of fear that the disappointment in Sherlock's underestimation of John's devotion to their friendship would end it right then and there. "John, I'm sorry, please forgive me for not telling you."

John Watson sighed and pushed away from the chair, making his way over to his friend. Despite his shorter stature, the man was twice as intimidating. "Sherlock Holmes, you great git, you don't need to apologize." He told him softly. 

Sherlock stared down into the warm brown eyes that made him melt in an instant, and he wanted to kiss the bloody soldier right then and there, but he couldn't. John Watson may not care is Sherlock was gay-although he never really used the label, considering it made things difficult, he was just Sherlock-but it would probably change his opinion if Sherlock let it slip that he was in love with him. And _god,_ was he in love with John Hamish Watson. Even now, as his flatmate stood just inches from him, Sherlock could smell the sweet peppermint of his breath and it made him weak at the knees. This man was an absolute _god_ in comparison to the detective with his strong, passionate, devoted inner complexion and his euphonious voice that reminded Sherlock of honey. It had been so for Sherlock to fall head over heals in love with this beautiful man, John was absolutely quiescent. The words in his mouth that he'd been suppressing for so many years were now burning in his mouth, making it even harder to speak. His mouth was on fire, and he tried to keep his jaw locked tight, just in case his brain decided to betray him and allow those deadly words to come out. His heart was pounding hard enough against his chest that it was a wonder it didn't break through his ribcage and fall out onto the floor. God, he had never envisioned love to feel so... _Rapturous._

"John..." He murmured then quickly shut his mouth again, unable to trust his own voice.

The doctor only smiled. "Listen, before you say anything, if it's any consolation... you were fantastic tonight." His voice was a susurrus of emotions all mingling on his tongue which was only inches from his best friend's ear.

Sherlock nearly crumpled before him. "John..." He repeated, so love drunk in that instant that he could shout it to the world and not care. 

"Sherlock, I need you to tell me something, and be completely honest." The doctor said seriously, pulling his face away to lock his eyes with Sherlock's. "Can you do that?"

The detective nodded.

John gazed up at him, searching his crisp blue eyes for anything that suggested a lie, but came up short. "Why does my opinion matter so much to you?" He asked, his voice still low and quiet. 

_Oh, god._

_Oh god, no._

Sherlock was not ready for this. He was not ready to tell John everything he felt. He was terrible when it came to matters of the heart after going years believing he had been born without one, but nothing could prepare him for this. John would never forgive him for telling the truth, this would make everything unfathomably awkward, and there was no way he would get out of this. All those years of hiding and pretending like he had no feelings whatsoever for the sake of his cases, but in reality it was because if he showed feelings for anyone, he knew that it would be impossible to get back out of it once rejected. He wouldn't be able to take John's rejection. Not his. Never his. Because John Watson was the reason he wasn't dead in a gutter or sleeping in drug houses. John Watson was the reason he didn't feel like a void all of the time. Love was a dangerous, deadly game, and he had been lured in like prey and was now stuck in its' captivity. He wasn't going to get out of it this time.

John was watching him closely, carefully, keeping his eyes soft and his breathing steady. "Sherlock?" He repeated slowly, as if he already knew the answer.

"I've never been _in love,_ John." Sherlock blurted out, immediately regretting the words as they spilled from his mouth. John's eyes widened, and he took a step back. It was over. No point in stopping now. "Your opinion matters the most to me, because I never imagined that someone would care for me like you have. I never thought that anyone would love me, especially not you, because sociopaths doesn't deserve love. Your opinion matters to me because you're all I've got, and I never wanted you to know because I never wanted you to dismiss me." By the end of his sentence, his voice had broken and cracked three times and the tears were already starting to flow no matter how much he tried to hide them. "I... I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry." He whispered as his friend turned away from him in shock. "Please forgive me, I'm so sorry, just forget I said anything, please. I won't mention it again, I swear, I'll-"

"Sherlock, just shut up a minute, alright?" John replied, bringing his hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock immediately clamped his jaw shut as he tried to deduce the staggering doctor, but his brain was so jumbled and disoriented that he was surprised he even remembered how to breathe. Finally, after was seemed like as agonizingly long time, John pulled his hand away and peered questioningly at the detective who was slowly becoming an unraveled mess in front of him. "Did you just... Are you... You _love_ me?" He asked, although it sounded more like a confirmation than a question. 

Sherlock swallowed hard. "It would... Appear so." He answered vaguely.

"No, see, that's not what I want to hear." John's voice clipped very briefly. "I don't want to know what it appears to be, did you just tell me you were in love with me, yes or no?"

The detective's knees nearly gave out. Everything in his body was screaming in protest, telling him to lie. "Yes." He rasped, although it was barely audible.

John inhaled very deeply through his nose, pursing his lips. "Right, then." He breathed. "Come here." 

"John?" 

Sherlock was cut off by the doctor's hands gripping his collar and pulling him down to his height, his lips colliding with the detective's a little too roughly. Sherlock was caught breathless as he was shoved back against the door, his body filled with the luscious tingling sensation he had longed for. His hands, which were shaking from the initial contact, found their way to his hips, gripping at the doctor's jumper like it was a lifeline and he were drowning at sea. But _god,_ did he ever love this drowning. John's lips became soft against his own, the kiss becoming less hungry and more passionate. John was being delicate with him. Sherlock wanted to pull away but he couldn't bring himself to rip himself away from the glorious moment for even a second. He felt unreal, like he was dreaming, and he began to panic, thinking that he would wake up in a minute, and this would have all been his imagination. It wouldn't have been the first time.

He suddenly pulled away from the kiss, earning an alarmed look from John. "Sherlock?" He gasped as the detective began to hyperventilate. He reached for him gingerly. "Hey, hey, hey, Sherlock, it's alright. Not good?" 

"No!" He shouted, mostly in desperation. "No, very good, it was very... very good, I just... You're not _gay,_ John."

The doctor blinked. "Sexuality doesn't define me, Sherlock. That's one thing I've learned from you." He replied fondly, a slight smile forming at his lips. "No, I suppose you're right, I'm not gay, but I've found that I've found one man in my life most attractive in every way, despite the fact that you're a complete idiot sometimes and have no sense of human nature whatsoever." He was lightly teasing, but Sherlock could hear the emotion built up behind his words, and oh, how it felt to hear it. 

"But, I... I'm just..."

"Sherlock, don't you get it?" John demanded almost humorously. _"I don't care._ At this point, I'd love you if you were six hundred pounds and working as a cabbie, I'd love you if you were working as a male prostitute, hell, I'd probably even love you if you were a murderer. In this fucked up... whatever it is we have, if the world was burning at our feet and we were about to lose everything, I would be content knowing that I died in love with the greatest man I've ever known. Because that is all that matters in the end." John reached out and brushed a tear from Sherlock's face with his fingertips, then moved his hand to the man's neck to cradle his cheek. "Because that is what happened today, Sherlock Holmes. I, John Hamish Watson, realized that I am madly, undoubtedly, _shamelessly_ in love with you, and no one will ever convince me that it's wrong or that you don't deserve it. Not even you." 

Sherlock's throat felt tight and his face felt like it was on fire. He couldn't even see John Watson anymore through the haze of tears. "John..."

The doctor chuckled and pulled him down for another kiss, this one being sweet and gentle. Neither man wanted it to end. John pulled Sherlock further into the room, collapsing back on the couch as they captured each other's lips, smiling and laughing breathlessly through the occasional murmurs of I love you. At some point, the cloths came off although the two men just lay there in each other's arms. Sherlock, who was still exhausted from the show, indulged himself in the arms of John Watson, _his John Watson,_ allowing the occasional loving sigh pass through his lips. The touching was extraordinary, blissful, it was like any and all drugs combines, and yet, the feeling of John's arms around him was still a much better high. The moment was perfect, a painting could be made from the moment and hung to be praised in the highest art museums for all to see. Neither man could describe the feeling in the pit of their bellies as they lay skin-against-skin on the couch, but it was the feeling you get when you see fresh baked cookies straight out of the oven. Both men came to the realization that there could be no heaven, because this was already it. They were already there. 

As the night became dark and the room became colder, John pulled a thick blanket from the corner and spread it out over the two men. They both had their eyes closed, but they were nowhere near tired. They were just giving rein to the sensation of each other's touch. Sherlock was wrapped tightly in John's embrace, the detective's thick, dark curls placed directly under his chin. He was listening to the doctor's heartbeat that so closely resembled his, though his was beating _John, John, John, John... His John_ was intertwined with his heartbeat. _His_ John. God, he loved that so much. Saying it, thinking it, the way it rolled across his tongue... It was beautiful. John was lightly tracing patterns on the detective's arm, sending the occasional shiver down his spine, which in turn, made the doting doctor chuckle. Everything was perfect.

"John?" Sherlock began quietly.

"Hm?" Came the soft reply.

The detective smiled as the light rumbling in John's chest echoed against his ear. "Lilah told me I could come back and be her duet partner if I wanted." 

"Are you going to do it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe. I'm still thinking." 

John chuckled. "Well, I support your choice. Do whatever you want." He answered.

With a happy smile, Sherlock snuggled deeper into John's pectoral muscles, loving the warmth and the sound of his heartbeat.

Just as sleep was beginning to take over him, he could hear his phone buzzing from the pocket of his dress shirt on the floor. With an audibly, slightly irritated sigh, John reached for it, fumbling around with the fabric to get the phone out. Sherlock, who was much too comfortable, didn't open his eyes. "Who it is?" He asked drowsily. 

John let out an exasperated sigh. "Lestrade. He needs us."

"I don't wanna go." Sherlock whined. "You're much too comfortable, John."

The doctor laughed. "Come on, you git. We've got work to do."

"John?" He started to say, opening his eyes and gazing up at him. He felt somewhat concerned. "What are we going to do about this? With Lestrade and Anderson and... Well, everyone else?" 

John didn't answer for a moment, but eventually captured the man's lips once again, a feeling neither of them would ever get tired of. When he pulled away, he smiled passionately down at his beloved detective. "We'll let them think what they always think; we're two idiots in love. The blogger and the ballet dancer." He teased affectionately, pressing a kiss to his nose.

Sherlock's heart suddenly felt like a warm brimstone, and he leaned in for another kiss, melting into the moment, as he had been dreaming about all these years, and would for many more. 

Amit Abraham once said, "Love need not speak volumes. It needs demand proof. It never has a happy ending-simply because it doesn't end as long as love is pure in true."

It was true. The two men needed not to say the words, simply because they didn't have to. Because they already knew.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were two ridiculous idiots completely in love with one another.

The blogger and the ballet dancer.


End file.
